


Drengskapr (Honour)

by bubblewrapstargirl



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Vikings (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Drug Use, First Kiss, First Time, Future Fic, M/M, Past Lives, Reincarnation, Reunions, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:04:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many nights he had lain awake and wished for the simplicity of their little home by the shore, with his parents and Gyda and their priest; all safe together and well loved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Bjorn was greatly saddened to learn of Athelstan's demise on his first raid, before Bjorn had even managed to set eyes upon him again since youth. His experience living in Sigvard's household had given Bjorn a wider prospective on what childhood could be like, and how lucky he had been before. Many nights he had lain awake and wished for the simplicity of their little home by the shore, with his parents and Gyda and their priest; all safe together and well loved. How foolish he had been, to not see how safe he was under Athelstan's gentle hand.

He bitterly regretted that he would never have the chance to make amends for his childish rages at the priest's presence, or to thank him for the kindness he had shown, to himself and Gyda both. It was with these thoughts tumbling around his head that Bjorn listened to Horik and Floki defame his childhood protector and carer. Their words left a sour taste in his mouth, that wine alone would not wash out.

Bjorn looked to Ragnar for some restitution; some defense of his well beloved priest. But his father did not speak up against the guest at his table, or his notoriously odd friend Floki. Bjorn found himself talking without leave, reminiscing on his and Gyda's feelings regarding the preist. He only hoped that he had made his feelings clear enough to Athelstan himself, in those months before Bjorn had left Kattegat, all those long years ago.

Later, Bjorn caught Ragnar standing on the raised porch outside the Hall, looking out over his domain. It was a place where Athelstan could oft be found, as he was fond of contemplating the comings and goings in Kattegat. Bjorn was overcome with a sudden need to know why his father did not defend his good friend.

Could so much really have altered between them, in the time Bjorn had been gone, that he no longer cared what any thought of the priest? He asked his father as much, but when he answered, there was a clear and honest pain in Ragnar's eyes.

"I would not do well to offend our guests or friends, defending ghosts. Defend the living; they are in greater need of it. They are all entitled to their own opinions of Athelstan. You and I know the truth of it; that is enough."

"It is enough for you, perhaps," Bjorn growled, his anger stoked. "And if we died, would you sit back and say nothing if your wife was called worthless? Or my honour denied?"

"Athelstan was not my wife." Ragnar reminded him calmly, and Bjorn swallowed back another retort. Athelstan was his kin, and Bjorn would not deny it for the sake of his father's allies.

\--

Bjorn falls into the river shortly after, and develops a chill. It is not overly dangerous and he is soon almost back to full strength. Siggy feeds him soup beside the fire, as his father's friends drink heartily and chortle over old raiding tales. 

"Do you miss your mother, Bjorn?" King Horik asks, turning all attention to where Bjorn is wrapped in large furs, and huddled down. "All boys miss their mothers when they are sick or injured, I find."

Bjorn nods his head in acquiescence. He does not deny it. "I miss Lagertha always." He says, and Horik smiles, clearly about to move the conversation on, as he has not managed to shame Bjorn.

"But it is not her that my thoughts turn to when I am sick." Bjorn continues, a faraway smile on his face, as he remembers better times.

"Oh?" Floki asks, leaning over, "Was there a special girl who took care of you?"

Bjorn laughs at the idea of it. He knows he is a terrible patient; grouchy and demanding.

"No, nothing of that kind." He said, determined to get out his feelings, "When I am sick, I wish Athelstan were here; and the loss of him is renewed."

"Was the priest a good nursemaid?" Horik chortles, with a cruel smile.

"Yes," Bjorn replies simply, meeting his eye with a challenging gaze of his own. "When Gyda and I were sick, we would curl up beside him, and beg him to tell us stories of his homeland. He would offer us tales of the gods instead, of Thor and Odin- but we could get those from anyone. We wanted new tales, and he had many. Myths, of fighters we had never heard of, and a madman who built a giant boat to protect animals from the rain, and a sinner who fell into the sea and was swallowed by a giant fish. He never ran out of stories, and we would fall asleep to the sound of his voice and the feel of his fingers brushing through our hair."

There is a hushed silence, as though no one dares to besmirch Bjorn's treasured memory.

"I wonder that Ragnar took such a storyteller raiding. It seems an unlikely choice." Horik finally says. Bjorn merely shrugs.

"He was a gentle soul. But as I understand it, he spent many hours practicing and sparring with my father. I think we can all agree that he could have had no better teacher, and if father decreed him worthy, Athelstan must have been a skilled fighter. I only regret that I never got to see it for myself."

There is nothing anyone can say to counter that, and Bjorn eats the rest of his soup with a smug smile.

\--

Bjorn does not expect the raid to end in King Ecbert's bloody death at his father's hand; or that they would find their lost priest amongst the King's dusty scrolls. Bjorn knows the moment that Althelstan recognises him, because he shuffles forwards in his clumsy priest's robes, and presses a curiously scarred hand against Bjorn's bloodied face.

He breathes out Bjorn's name like it is one of his prayers, and Bjorn smiles, overjoyed that he has not been forgotten. He wraps Athelstan in his arms, surprised to find he has grown taller than the thin man, and holds on for longer than is proper. Bjorn does not care. Athelstan has been reborn, like his dead god, and Bjorn has been given another chance to prove himself worthy of Athelstan's care. He is clean shaven, and Bjorn is shocked by how young he looks; he must not have been much older than Bjorn is now when he was taken from his monastery. It is this realisation which begins to tip his thoughts of the priest in a new direction.

Bjorn guards Athelstan's time jealously. The others do not deserve his gentle attentions; they did not defend him against cold words, or remember him in their tales. They do not deserve him now.

He catches Athelstan watching him from the corner of his eye, probably confused at the attention. Bjorn made no secret of his scorn as a child, and even though they were very amicable in the later months, just before Gyda died, he must have thought Bjorn had forgotten all about him when he left with his mother. But Bjorn's attention is so singular that Floki, in his brash way, comments on it. 

"If you want so much of him, you'll have to marry him, Bjorn. Or else stop guarding him like a jealous husband-to-be."

"Perhaps that is exactly what I am," Bjorn counters, filling his cup with fresh wine and returning to Athelstan's side.

\--

It is when they return to Uppsala that Bjorn finally gets Athelstan completely to himself. The place obviously holds negative memories for the priest, who had his faith in Ragnar severely shaken here, but when no mention of sacrificing him is made, he finally begins to relax.The soup and wine is heavily doctored, and Bjorn makes sure to only drink water. He is still affected by the soup, and his surroundings swirl around pleasantly.

Athelstan is worse off, smiling vacantly and idly tracing his fingers in the air, as though he is trying to weave the stars. Bjorn grins as he watches him, and offers the former priest some of his water. As Athelstan begins to sober, Bjorn leads him away from the crowds. Athelstan stumbles, his footing unsure, and so he uses it as an excuse to hold onto the older man's hand.

Bjorn finds an empty patch of grass between the trees, and draws Athelstan down to the forest floor beside him. He submits to Bjorn's kisses without protest, tangling his fingers in Bjorn's yellow hair. His kisses are smooth, but he blushes when Bjorn begins to unlace his tunic. Can it be? That still, after all this time, his priest remains untouched? All at once, Bjorn's hunger is ravenous and insatiable. He spreads Athelstan out beneath him on the soft grass, and devours him.

In the morning, Athelstan is all jumbled words and deep blushes. Bjorn ignores it, planting deep kisses on his red lips until Athelstan sighs and relaxes into his arms.

\--

The first time he fucks the priest, they have been fishing, near where the old house used to be. They are alone, away from Kattegat, and Athelstan has been teasing him with flashes of skin and quick kisses for days. Bjorn is starving for want of him. A warm night descends, and they slowly undress one another beside the fire. Athelstan strokes his hands down the well-defined muscles on Bjorn's chest, until Bjorn drags him into a kiss and bites at his soft lips. He tugs his priest by his long hair, and kisses the scars on his hands from the torture he endured from his own people, which he had explained to Bjorn with hushed words and a hunted look in his eye.

Bjorn fucks him with long, deep strokes, and Athelstan whines below him, his pale legs wrapped about his waist and the heels of his feet digging into Bjorn's lower back. He had already spilled his seed at the feel of Bjorn's fingers rubbing inside of him; but his pretty cock is flushed again, laying on his stomach. Bjorn doesn't touch it, just grins with a wolfish smile as his cock is enough to make Athelstan come again, spilling white wetness all over himself. He is tight and hot and wet inside, and Bjorn spills his own seed with a satisfied moan. He collapses forward, capturing Athelstan's lips with another deep kiss.

"You're mine now, priest," he whispers possessively, and Athelstan only answers by gripping Bjorn's hair with desperate fingers, and joining their lips in an endless kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire has always felt drawn to Enjolras. Everyone knows he doesn't come to the meetings for the Cause. He doesn't believe in it the way the others do; he believes in Enjolras. When he talks, Grantaire is mesmerised, like a snake led by a charmer. He doesn't know why, but from the moment he caught sight of the golden haired protester, he was lost. Even before they had spoken, Grantaire felt as though he knew him, and every time they spoke it was a conclusion solidified. He has never had the chance to sit quietly and think on it; always too busy with marches or plans or disappearing into the bottom of a wine bottle.

Even on those nights when they are alone, when Enjolras can be persuaded to pack in early and Grantaire drags him to his studio, he doesn't get the opportunity to sit and watch him and think about the wherefores of it. He's too busy taking advantage of his leader's undivided attention. Enjolras is like the sun, and he burns Grantaire up.

Enjolras' kisses are deep, and all consuming, and he fucks like a caged beast desperate to distract himself from his imprisonment. Maybe the Cause is that, to him. Grantaire is his distraction, his relief. He doesn't look to Enjolras for constant leadership, for steadfast devotion to the Cause, like the others do. Grantaire believes in Enjolras alone; with his whole heart. Whatever cause he would lay his life down for is one Grantaire would follow him into, with blind devotion. Grantaire cares because Enjolras does; and that is the only recommendation he needs.

But it doesn't explain that magnetism he feels towards him; as though he were attached by an invisible cord and never able to stray too far. He never does get his answer, till he wakes to find the National Guard pointing their muskets at Enjolras' face. In the face of certain death, Enjolras turns, and for a moment his profile catches the golden glow of the sun, and Grantaire remembers clouded skies and thick, waist-high grasses that rustled with every step. There was blood on Enjolras' face and an axe in is hand, but he wasn't Enjolras then he was-

"Bjorn," Grantaire whispers, and he half expects Enjolras to turn to him and ask 'what, am I no longer your Apollo?', but when he catches his eye he can see that Enjolras knows.

Grantaire - Athelstan - crosses the space between them in short, purposeful strides. Seconds ago he was in a drunken stupor, and now he has never felt more awake, more clear about who he is and what Enjolras means to him.

When they kiss it is like a revolution of their own; Grantaire remembers Bjorn's fingers in his hair, damp earth beneath them and the smell of woodsmoke permeating through their clothes, and he spares a moment to regret that they will never make love with the memories of who they used to be running through their every movement.

"Vive la Révolution." He says when they part, knowing that it will be the death of him, but he doesn't even feel the pain when the bullets hit; too distracted by the feel of his love's hand gripped tightly in his own.


End file.
